Learning to Live
by Oberon Sexton
Summary: The War of the Ninepenny Kings took much from the Targaryens, and even a year later one still drowns in grief. But there is always hope for happiness, if one allows it back into their life.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER: I OWN NOTHING**

**A/N: Not sure where exactly this one came from, but I guess I had an urge to do more with these characters. Chronologically this takes place after War of the Dragons but before Sons of the Dragon. I hope to keep this one short!**

Aemon lay on his back, his hands behind his head, and the sheets around his waist. He watched Alerie looking out of the window, her elbows on the sill, her chin on her hands. He watched Alerie, and he thanked the Gods that the Lyseni dressmakers had decided to make all of their materials so thin and translucent. He thanked them with a wholehearted gratitude , because it clung to her so tightly that it seemed she was nude.

"Alerie," he wheedled at her.

"Mmm?"

"Come back to bed."

She turned round; hands on the sill behind, her body a dark outline against the bright window. "Why? Haven't you grown tired of me?"

"I don't think that's possible."

"Well," and she pushed herself away from the window and padded across the room. "I don't suppose there's any harm in testing your limits, is there?" she stopped at the foot of the bed. "There's just one thing."

He smiled in confusion. "And what's that?"

She crept up on to the bed, on her hands and knees, eyes fixed on his face. She knelt up, one leg either side of him and leant down, slowly kissing a trail up his chest and neck, right up to his lips. Her hair tickled at his face and her rasping breath tickled his ear. She whispered to him then, "I'm dead…."

Aemon sat up in bed with a sudden jolt, for a few moments unsure what had just happened. He took a series of deep breaths and searched his surroundings. He was still in his bedroom just as he had been; only it was night and he was alone. Like a slow knife driving into his chest he realized that it had all been a dream, and that he was alone. _Now and forever…_

With a miserable hesitancy he lowered himself back under his covers and grasped onto one if the pillows, it used to be that Alerie laid against that same pillow, her strawberry scent covering it and the whole bed. Aemon once found comfort in the small items that littered his chambers, the way it smelt, the way things had been oddly place by her unique sense of comfort. But months had passed since she and his child had died, and her presence was slowly fading from the old castle, as was all forms of joy and happiness in his life.

How often had he dreamt of her? It seemed as if every night brought a new dream, a new hallucination. Her voice was a constant whisper in his head, her image constantly dancing on the edge of his vision. More than once he wondered if he was going the way of so many of his forebears, if the coin had landed on the side of madness in his case. The thought was crushing, humiliating and powerful. He grasped his wife's pillow again and used it to muffle his sobs so that none of the servants would come rushing in. His eyes were still wet with tears when he finally fell asleep again.

When he awoke next it was well into the afternoon, the orange rays of sunlight filtered in through open window. He took a few deep breaths, and slowly dragged himself from the bed. His whole body ached with stiffness and he took a few moments to roll his shoulders, trying his best to relieve the tension.

_Why do I bother?_ He wondered for the thousandth time. It felt as if each day weighed down on him harder than the last, as if the sky itself would come crumbling down on him. Aemon dutifully dressed and took a moment to observe himself in a mirror. The face that stared back at him was gaunt and tired looking. Dark bags sat underneath his purple eyes, which were now listless and faded. His hair had lost its shine and hung about messily, a grotty stubble covering his jaw. _ I look just as I feel,_ he reflected. _I'm dead already, I just have to wait for my body realise it…_

He found that he could no longer look at the reflection and tore his gaze away, taking a shuddering breath. _How can I leave this room? _ he wondered. _How can I face anyone, have they ever seen such a miserable wretch before? _ more than anything he wanted to crawl back to his bed and stay there forever. In the end he found the nerve and slowly moved down the grand halls of his castle. The Servants, whom had served with the royal family for most of their lives, smiled and bowed whenever they saw him, but it did little to change his mood. He felt grey and dull.

With weary, lifeless movements, Aemon Targaryen made his way towards the eastern wing of Summerhall. He began a slow climb up a series of steps until he finally came upon the door of the castellan of the ancient summer home.

Jon Staedmon stood before a great map, pointing out positions with one meaty finger, and circling them with a dab of ink from his quill, a look of deep-set concentration on his lined face. The old man had first served as Castellan of Summerhall in the early days of King Aegon's rule when he first moved his family to court and his visits grew less. Jon stood tall and proud as an old oak tree and was twice as stubborn, having served directly under King Maekar himself. When he saw the prince enter he gave the slightest smile.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, my prince?" he finished marking off a spot on the map and put his full attention to Aemon. "The maids said you were ill."

Aemon gave a tired nod. "Aye, but not of any ailment of the body I'm afraid."

Staedmon raised a single grey brow. "How do you mean?"

He chose to ignore the man for the moment and instead gestured to the map. "What's all this?"

"Oh, we've been having some problems with bandits around the area," the old knight brushed the thought away with a weary gesture. "It's nothing serious. But what's this ailment you're referring to?"

"I've been having trouble sleeping again," he said quietly. "I've come to know what that is a precursor to, very soon I'll become utterly useless around here." he felt a pang of shame. "I fear that you'll need to take charge of the castle for a while."

The old man looked at Aemon for a very long time, long enough to unsettle the prince. "I've known you for many, many years. I knew you when you were naught but a loud energetic nuisance. I know you suffer from…problems, but If you need help," his eyes drifted up and down discerningly, "as it certainly looks like, then why not ask for help? I can manage here, so why not go to your family? King Aegon or perhaps Prince Jaehaerys-"

"NO!" He was surprised by the volume of his voice, and felt his whole body trembling. "No…I can't ask that of them. My father is King, he has millions of people to worry about without my added troubles. Jaehaerys…" he thought about his brother, sick in bed struggling to breath from a slight chill. "Jaehaerys has his own problems."

"What about Prince Duncan?"

Aemon would have sniggered if he had the energy. "I love him dearly, but my brother has hardly ever been one to take much responsibility."

Jon shook his head and sat forwards, his eyes locked on Aemon's. "Well the others may have their own worries, but I know for a fact that your sister would raise no objections about coming here, or even accepting you into her husband's halls. It's not so far to Storm's End."

That gave him pause. Rhaelle was his big sister. He felt safe around her, in a way that he didn't with the others. _How many times in the past have I come to her with a problem? How many times has she been patient with me? Would it really be so bad to go to her again?_ The thought was crushed quickly. His sister did not need to be burdened by his madness.

"I can't do that to her," he said weakly.

"Why not?"

He felt shame burning under his skin, searing at whatever shred of pride he had left. "Why would I burden her….why would I burden _any_ of them with my madness? It would only hurt them, and I can tell you now Ser, I am not worth the grief that it would inspire within them."

Jon looked at him defiantly. "Is this really about your family's sake, or are you just afraid of being seen as a madman?"

"What would you know of it?" he snapped. "My family has had to live with this curse for centuries Ser, do you realise how much derision and hatred it has brought to our reign? Do you think that my father's enemies would not use whatever they could to undermine him? It's better for everyone this way."

The old man sat back in his seat, a look of deep disappointment on his face. "I never would have thought I'd see the day when you would have given up so easily."

"You think I _wanted this?"_ he rose to his feet, fuming. He desperately wanted to break something. "You think I wanted any of this? I wanted to be a knight and lord, I wanted to live in this castle with my wife and child and serve the realm, I wanted peace, I wanted happiness!"

"Calm down Aemon-"

_"NO!"_ He roared, knocking all of the books and maps from the table, unable to see through his rage. "No I will _not _calm down! I will not be called a coward in my own keep! You think you know what it's like? I see her in my dreams every damned night, mocking me, _haunting_ me! Don't talk me about bravery and strength, do you know how difficult it is to drag myself from bed every morning? Do you know how the grief that I carry with me every day! It's a weight on my chest that never leaves_!"_

By the time he had finally stopped to take a breath Aemon realized that he had been screaming his throat raw and that he had overturned several items in Jon's solar. His head was throbbing and he felt like he could collapse, his hands were trembling. The shame of his outburst struck him like a hammer. _How could I have done this? Why did I do this?_

"I….I'm sorry," he tried miserably.

Jon stood, perfectly still. His face was a mask. He casually walked around the scattered books and overturned chairs until he was standing right before the prince. "Aemon," he said. "I am perfectly aware of how badly you are doing right now, and you have suffered more than most men your age should have to, but you can't allow your misery to bottle up as it does."

"I'm safe here Jon, no one judges me here." he felt tears rising in his eyes. "Out there, at court they'd just think of me as another Prince Rhaegel or Aerion Brightflame. I can't face that, or my family knowing I'd be shaming them."

The old castellan gently squeezed Aemon's shoulder, his face softened into a fatherly expression. "If you lock yourself away in fear, then you will wake up some day to find that the world has passed you by. Don't give in to it Aemon, please."

"What can I do?"

"At the very least take a few days to rest," he spoke softly, slowly, careful to keep the prince calm. "And then after that I think you should go to Storm's End for a time. There is to be a tourney there soon, mayhaps you could stay with your sister under the guise of wanting to see it. Some time away will do you wonders, you'll see."

Aemon gave a shaky breath, and nodded. "Aye…I think you might be right. I'll need to send a raven of course, to let her know that I'm coming….." he shook his head. "I think for now that I shall retire to mine own study for a time."

Jon bowed low. "As you wish, my prince."

Aemon was stirred from his late night readings by the distant sounds of arguing outside in the courtyard. He rose silently from his desk and padded over to the window of his solar, in the moonlight he could just barely make out the image of several cloaked figures setting on horseback, arguing with the castle's Man-at-arms. _ Guests?_ _ At this hour? That can only be trouble…_

With a long yawn he donned a cloak and made his way down to investigate. When the Man-at-arms spotted Aemon he stiffed considerably yet gave a bow nonetheless. Ser Lyonel Tudbury was a big man with a big face, oversized features positively stuffed into the available room on the front of his head. "My prince!" he announced loudly, as if to scare the current cloaked figures on horseback. "You needed have gotten out of bed for such a trivial manner as this, I was-"

"-I wasn't in bed, Ser." He said dismissively before turning towards the cloaked riders, all of them still sitting astride their steads. "Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?"

The leader of the group urged his horse forwards just a tad, letting more of the moonlight hit his face. He was a stern-looking type with a long sword at his side that looked like it had seen plenty of action and a grey-stubbled face that looked like it had seen plenty more, eyes narrowed to slits in the shadow of his hood. "I am Myles Allyrion of Godsgrace," his voice held only a trace of the odd Dornish accent, and he looked down at Aemon long and level. Eventually he added a "My Prince."

"And what is a Dornish lord doing this far north?" he asked curiously. "And travelling at this hour?"

Another man dismounted from his horse, allowing his squire to take the reins. He was tall and broad-shouldered with a handsome face and a mass of dark curls. He gave a respectful bow before speaking. "Prince Aemon, I am Franklyn Fowler of Skyreach." he smiled at his own title before gesturing to the others behind him. "These fine fellows are all my travelling companions, an entourage of Dornish lords on our way to the Capitol to answer a summons from your father the good King." His face fell. "We were set upon by bandits on the way here, lost many good men. I know it is most unusual, and that I have come at such an inappropriate time, but I beg your grace to allow us to rest here for the night, at least until it is safe to travel again."

Aemon looked over at the crowd of Dornishmen, there was easily thirty or more of them. _ So many people coming into my home, by the Gods this will be tiresome. A good host would have to endure their presence, show them every courtesy…but do I really have the strength for that? I hardly have the strength to look my own servants in the eye let alone lords of Dorne. _ He found that he had started to grind his teeth and made himself stop at once. "The hospitality of Summerhall is yours, my lords. I'll have my servants prepare rooms as befitting your station."

Fowler beamed down at him. "You have the gratitude of Dorne my prince, truly as good and kind as your kingly father."

"Yes, yes," he waved the notion away. "Ser Lyonel here will show you all to the stables, and I'll have some food prepared in the main hall."

The big-headed knight all but groaned his displeasure, but led the entourage away while Aemon stepped back and leant against a nearby post, watching them go by. In the moonlight he could only just see their faces, but one caught his eye; tar-black hair on a strong face with hard bones in it, a fierce line of jaw and a lean neck. Blue eyes, like ice over sea water looked out, certain intelligence to them. Her blue eyes found his purple and _winked_ back at him.

Aemon looked back in disbelief. _What have I gotten myself into?_


	2. Questions

**Disclaimer: I own nothing**

**A/N: Thank you Ramzes for the review!**

Aemon gazed out the window of his solar at the courtyard below. Several of his Dornish guests were chatting away happily while a few of them even dared to flirt with passing servants. There was a way about the collected men and women, a lack of concern, a laziness that was markedly different from most other people.

"What is it that makes the Dornish act as they do?" he wondered aloud.

Maester Corlys looked up from his ledger with a smile. "It started with Nymeria's landing and unfortunately hasn't stopped in the all years since."

The prince's mouth went into a firm line. He had been playing host to quite a few days now and was growing more than a little irritated with the Dornishmen and their lack of propriety. More than that, they made him feel like an old man and a shut-in. Most of the times he begged off from their company, claiming that he had matters of the crown that he needed to see to and locked himself into his study. In a bizarre it made him feel like a prisoner in his own home.

There had been little success in bringing the bandits that plagued the forests surrounding his home to justice. Every time his knights would draw them out they'd only fight long enough to bloody their swords before vanishing back into the wilderness, over time his household guards were being whittled down. It was frustrating beyond belief and until he could ensure the safety of his guests, they were stuck with him.

"Do you know what I think?" asked the old Maester as he put his books aside. "I think you should sup with them tonight."

Aemon frowned so hard that it hurt. "Your humour is lost on me."

"I am not joking my prince," he rose from his seat and walked over to Aemon's side. "I don't mean to speak out of turn, but it isn't seemly for you to ignore such noble guests. If they were a band of hedge knights, well that could be understood, but these are all lords and ladies of Dorne. You would insult them if you keep this up and besmirch your father's name."

Aemon considered the Maester's words. It was true that his father had enjoyed a friendly relationship with the Dornish, in part by his close kinship with them. If he were to bring insult or offense to such high lords then it would reflect badly on his father, and there were few things Aemon despised more than being a burden for his father. _Dammit to all the Seven bloody Hells,_ he thought angrily,_ the old man's right._

"Very well, I shall sup with them tonight," He took a deep breath, released. "But it will be agony of the highest order."

The old man gave a genuine smile at that. "Mayhaps, Prince Aemon, if you pretend to have fun long enough you might have a little by accident."

* * *

Aemon sat there frowning, and drank.

He hadn't much taste for food lately, had less for ceremony, and none at all for flattery, so his banquet in the great hall came close to a nightmare. Alerie had been the one for feasting, form and flattery. She would have loved it-smiling, laughing and making jest with the worst of them. if she'd found a moment clear of exchanging compliments with people who despised her and whom she despised in return, she would have leaned over, and touched his arm with a soothing hand, and whispered in his ear to grin and take it.

He had a bastard of a headache, pulsing right behind his eyes, and the genteel rattle of cutlery might as well have been hammered into his face. His stomach twisted from the wine he had drank and it was only by sheer force of will that he kept his stomach contents inside rather than on lord Fowler's gold-embroidered doublet.

The Dornishman leaned towards his with polite concern. "Are you alright prince Aemon? You look rather…downcast."

"Downcast?" he swallowed the rising bile enough to speak. "No, I was just…caught in a moment. It's been some time since I last had any guests."

Fowler turned his wine glass slowly round and round by the stem. "Yes, it's been a while since I last heard any interesting gossip about you," he took a small sip and grinned. "It seems that the court has forgotten all about you!"

"For that I am entirely grateful."

"There are those in Dorne who keep their ears open for news of you," he smiled again. "You have family in Dorne."

"I have family in many places," Aemon replied noncommittally.

That got a laugh from the man. "You are quite the downer. I must say I am rather disappointed, I had heard that King Aegon's children were all fearsome in their ways, even your sickly brother is said to have a mind sharper than any sword, your sister is said to be a Storm Queen of old come again and of course we all know about Prince Duncan. The blood of Martell runs thickly in that one."

Aemon did not miss the implication behind the man's words. _Praise my siblings and write me off as bore, as if I care. _ He thought of Alerie and bit back a retort and instead took a mouthful of wine to calm his nerves. "My brothers are great men, and my sister is probably the bravest soul in the kingdoms, I unfortunately, haven't their talents."

"But you fought in the War of the Ninepenny Kings," Fowler insisted. "I heard you acquitted yourself well on the battlefield, which takes a level of bravery."

_Oh please,_ he inwardly groaned._ Let's not talk about that damned war_. There were few things that Aemon was more loath to talk about. "Well, the whole kingdom was brave, none more so than my father."

He drained his glass and slung it rattling back across the wood. Maybe it was some of the best wine in the realm, but it tasted of vomit to him. Everything did. His life was made of it. One of the serving girls hurried over with practiced grace and refilled his empty glass, and then retreated from sight. Aemon reached for the glass again, his hands carrying the slightest shake to them. He prayed for mindless, shameful, stupefying drunkenness to swarm over and blot out his misery. He let his eyes crawl over the other guests. All of them drinking too much, laughing too loud, talking fast in their flavoured accents, touching each other with familiarity and confidence. It made the memory of Alerie sting all the more.

"Might I ask," came the rough voice of Myles Allyrion from his other side. "Which lords did you serve with in the war?"

_No, you may not ask. _"I served mostly with lords of the Reach, though I am proud to say that I fought alongside a few of your countrymen Lord Allyrion."

The man's weather-worn face crinkled slightly in surprise. "Oh? Which ones?"

"Lords Gargalen, Blackmont, Wells," he stopped to take a sip of his wine. "They were all of them most valiant."

Allyrion nodded and fell into a respectful silence.

Fowler, however, was keen to keep talking until the sun burnt out. "Do you speak much with your lady Aunt, my prince?"

"No,"

"A shame," he said with a voice full of regret. "Lady Daella is quite the intelligent woman, and was very upset when she heard about what happened to your wife."

There was a moment where Aemon was certain that he was going to smash his wine glass through the man's face. He locked eyes with Fowler, the remnants of his mask of courtesy discarded. _That's it, I'm done with this charade. _ Aemon gagged down the remnants of his wine and scowled at the glass. He rose to his feet and walked out of the hall without another word.

* * *

It was raining outside and Aemon was fuming. His face was burning, stinging, as if he'd been slapped. He'd rather have been slapped. There was a cold wind blowing with rain, it did little to improve his attitude. The courtyard was abandoned at this time of night and there was little moonlight to provide illumination, more than once Aemon bumped into something and had to smother a curse. Finally he came under cover as he reached the other side, and took a moment to rest against one of the pillars, face turned into a scowl.

"You look as bitter as I feel."

"Eh?" Aemon looked up. There was a woman talking to him. "Oh." She was very good to look at, so much that she seemed to have a glow about her. Then he realized everything had a glow about it, as he was quite drunk. "I'm sorry, I didn't see you," he mumbled.

"You've been pretty hard to see yourself, Prince Aemon." She said.

From her accent she sounded Dornish, though from what region he couldn't tell. She seemed different from the rest, though. Necklace of cut rubies hung around her long neck, a scarlet dress with a golden sash that was tied but loosely. There was something easy in the way she stood, no stiff manners to her. Something open in her smile. For a moment, it almost had him smiling with her. The first time in a long while. Then his gaze focused and he caught her face.

"I've seen you before, haven't I?" he took step forward, hands in his pockets. "You're with Fowler and Allyrion and all the rest."

There was that smile again. "Very good my prince, I have indeed come with Lords Fowler and Allyrion on their journey to see the King."

He waited for her to continue, to elaborate in some basic way, perhaps introduce herself, but in the end she did none of those things and instead remained standing, a knowing smile on her face. _ And what is it that she knows?_ He wondered. _I suppose I'll have to be the one to keep things moving._ "Might I ask your name my lady?"

"You might," she said casually, her delicate finger tracing patterns on the nearby pillar. "But that doesn't mean you'd get it."

Aemon watched her for a moment, a smirk at his lips. "But, my lady….if you don't tell me your name then how can I to treat you with the proper respect?"

"Respect." she puffed out her cheeks as she gazed over towards the glow of the Great Hall. "I despaired of finding any among that crowd," her blue eyes lifted towards his slowly with a grin. "If you want my name you'll have to earn it."

"And how would I do that?"

"Well…." she walked along the stone wall to their side, hand pressed flat against the rock and making the lightest sound amongst the rainfall. "How about we play a game, I ask you a question and you ask me a question, you can ask me anything at all and I can do the same but we can only reply in yes or no. If you can guess who I am then I'll tell you if you're right or not."

"And what about you?" he asked, a stupid grin on his face. "What are you trying to find out?"

A devilish smile passed over her face then and her blue eyes shone like polished sapphires. "The same thing as you."

He was confused, and more than a little drunk, but he went along with her anyway. _When was the last time I relaxed like this?_ He chuckled a little and nodded his consent. "Alright, but I go first. Are you from House Fowler?"

A flash of a grin. "No."

"Damn."

She leant back against the stone wall, eyes in deep concentration. " Have you been to King's Landing in the last year?"

"No."

He watched her carefully, trying to take in every detail of her face and match it against Lord Allyrion. So far he could see little resemblance. _So she is not his kin._ He regarded her complexion, it was olive but of a lighter shade_. A stony Dornishwoman, but with perhaps a parent from the Red Mountains_. "Are you from House Yronwood?"

There was a flutter in her eye, but she managed a smile. "No. Do your royal siblings visit much?"

"No. Is your father or mother among the guests in the Great Hall?"

"No. Have you had any guests here in the last year?"

Aemon frowned a little at that, and had to think. _When was the last time I held anything of note here? Surely before Alerie died. _ He swallowed uneasily. "No…" his line of questions left him, and he struggled to regain them. "Have….have you been out of Dorne before?"

"Yes," She watched him for a moment, saying nothing and doing nothing but watching him, absorbing every little detail. Aemon couldn't help but flinch under her gaze. When she spoke, the mirth had left her voice. "Have you left this place in the last year?"

Shame flooded through him then, like a warm heat spreading across his chest. "No," Suddenly he didn't feel like playing anymore. "Are you…a Martell?" he asked weakly, wanting to go back and crawl into his bed.

"No," she took a few cautious steps forward, and looked up at him with such sadness that it made his heart ache. "Are you lonely?"

"…yes."


	3. Playing favourites

**A/N: As always, thank you for the reviews, they mean a lot.**

There was the faintest smell of rain in the evening air as the sun began to lower into the horizon. Aemon found it pleasing as he casually read from one of his old books on the Dance of the Dragons, the sounds of a light storm helping set the mood for the tale of greed and tragedy. Whatever else may have given him worry or distress, he found he could always find joy in books.

At his feet sat Vermithor, enjoying his master's company and thumping his tail whenever the prince reached down to give him a scratch behind the ears. The hound was an old beast, having been given to Aemon when he was made a knight and despite his age would still sit by his master patiently, wary and protective. Thus when the animal lifted his head and fixed his eyes on the door, Aemon knew someone was coming.

Not a moment after Aemon looked up, Jon Staedmon entered his chambers, and two messages clenched his palsied hand. "My prince, sorry for disturbing you, but we've had two birds come." He handed both letters to Aemon and stood back expectantly.

Aemon looked at the first, it bore the royal sigil. _It's about time,_ he thought irritably. He had written to his father about the Dornish lords over a week ago and hadn't heard back in all the time since. He broke the seal and read in silence, unsure of what to expect.

_Aemon,_

_We have received your last letter and our father has informed me that you are to give them every comfort during their stay with you. Dorne is often a fickle beast, and while the Blackfyres have been put to rest, there are still dangers within the realm and it would not do for a prince of the blood to insult them in these delicate times. _

_Your Brother, Jaehaerys Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone._

He frowned at the letter and reread it. While it was clearly Jaehaerys own hand, the letter was much terser than his brother had ever been, lacking any familial warmth in the slightest. Likewise his brother did not deign to even offer an explanation on what the Dornish were doing in their father's court. _There's something I'm not being told, _he pondered briefly. _Why in the world is Jaehaerys acting this way, is there some deeper problem at court?_

Aemon put the letter aside and looked to the second. It bore the stag of House Baratheon and he couldn't help but smile a little as he opened it.

_Little Brother,_

_ How are you? Are you well? It has been so long since your last visit that I have nearly forgotten your face! Steffon asks after you day and night and I have half a mind to sit him on a horse and send him off in your direction. At least that way Edric and I would get some peace and quiet!_

_I have heard of your Dornish guests, are you treating them well? You should be mindful that you don't insult them; Gods only know how they'd react. Are there any pretty ladies in their company? Don't be afraid to chase them, no one should be without affection._

_Oh , you'll come visit me soon won't you? Or perhaps I could come to you? I even had a raven last week from Aunt Daella in Dorne, I feel as though I hear from her more than I do from you. I miss you terribly. You better not be brooding too much little brother, it is not becoming on a prince and you look much more comely with a smile on. _

_Love, Rhaelle_

Aemon sighed a little as he read over his sister's letter. In truth it hurt him to be away from her and the others, yet he truly did not feel worthy to be in the presence of his family. _But at least Rhaelle has not changed; _the thought brought a smile to his face. He was somewhat shocked to find that his sister still kept in contact with their aunt; as far as he was aware she seldom left Dorne. _Mayhaps I'll write to her…_

He almost brought quill to paper when he realised that Jon Staedmon was still standing, looking at him expectantly. "What else was there Jon?"

The old man nodded to the letters. "If I might ask…..does the King mention when he might be next visiting, my prince?"

"No, I'm afraid there was little news from my father," he said with a shrug. "Why do you ask?"

"Because I believe that this bandit problem is becoming quite a hindrance to our forces," the embarrassment coloured the old man's face, painting it a light scarlet. "I was hoping that we might be able to get a few more troops to help patrol."

Aemon raised his hands. "I'm open to any and all suggestions."

* * *

"A _tourney?_" Surely the old man had temporarily taken leave of his wits and not meant any of what he had said. "You want to host a damned tourney at the castle?"

Maester Corlys smiled. "Think about it Prince, it would be the perfect way to draw these godless bandits out into the open, and you would have the added benefit of having the other lords and their knights to bolster protection of the area for a time. It would also be a grand display of wealth and prestige to impress the Dornish, is that not what your father asked of you?"

Aemon was stunned at how much the old Maester had thought it all out. Certainly if he agreed then he could kill two birds with one stone, and in his own small way impress his father. _But all of the people…._the thought of it made him ill. His mind desperately searched for alternative options, ways that would keep everyone happy and himself undisturbed. "Ah, dammit, fine! Make preparations for the damned tourney!"

The Maester gave a happy nod. "Very good my prince."

"You'll be the death of me, Old man." He turned and made for hallway. "I shall be in the East-wing; I'm not to be disturbed!" He prayed that the Maester had no more tricks up his sleeve and that he could at least get a few hours of solitude.

* * *

The rooms that he and his siblings used to stay in were glorious to behold as children, the beds seemed large enough to fit ten people, the bookshelves large enough to touch the ceiling. As a man who had spent much of his adolescence in the Red Keep, they seemed quite a bit smaller and less grand. The beds not even half as big as the one at the capitol, the bookshelves not even filled all the ways. Time had also taken some of the shine and sheen from them, but despite it all Aemon found that he enjoyed spending time in those rooms whenever he needed to clear his head as he thought of simpler times.

_Though that time did not last,_ he thought bitterly. Aemon was quite a bit younger than his brothers, and his sister only had so much time for an annoying little nuisance like him. More often than not he played alone. _ Such is the life of the youngest._

He went over to examine the carved wooden dragons that sat on a shelf, his hands gently caressing the carved wood as though it were a lover's thigh. The level of detail that would be put into such trinkets always impressed him and he hoped that the craftsmen had been paid well.

"You even had dragons as _toys_," the voice was not two steps behind him. "Why am I not surprised?"

Aemon couldn't help but smile as he turned to face her. She was watching him with those challenging blue eyes, two sapphires that shone with laughter. _A man could get lost in those eyes like a sailor at sea… _"If you think this is bad then you should see Dragonstone, the place is _made_ of dragons."

"The privies there must be a sight," she replied, face twisted into a lopsided grin that was at once bewitching and humbling.

"Oh, they're absolutely frightening." He looked down for a moment, before handing over the toy in his hand. She took it and examined it with childlike fascination, tracing her fingers over every tooth, every claw. After she was satisfied with that one she returned it to the shelf and examined the other two with the same level of attention.

She looked up suddenly, a frown on her face. "There isn't one for you."

"Hmm?"

Her delicate finger tapped at the names that were carved into the wooden beasts. "They all have names, Prince Duncan's, Prince Jaehaerys, your sister….where is yours?"

"I don't have one," he said casually, before being met with a look of confusion. "These were all made a long time ago, before I was born."

Her brow furrowed. "Why didn't they make one for you?"

Aemon went to speak but found he couldn't quite form any words. _Why was it that they didn't make me one?_ He was at a loss there. As far back as he could remember he would always borrow his brothers' toys, aside from rare occasions when the king felt the need to mark an event with gifts. "I suppose…there was no need for me to have my own."

"That doesn't seem fair to me," she replied quietly, moving away from the shelf and towards Aemon. "You would think that all of the king's children would receive the same."

He couldn't help but give a bemused smile. "It was just a toy, and my brother Duncan was a man grown by the time I was out playing. He didn't care if I used the things he had outgrown."

There was a defiant set in her eyes again. Something that made Aemon's heart beat faster and his breathing become harder. "But they made one for all the others," she pointed to the carved names, writ in beautiful Valyrian. "Surely it would not be so hard to have another made?"

"Well, my parents had greater duties-"

"Parents," she said sharply, "should not have favourites among their children."

_This is odd,_ he noted upon watching her hawkish eyes. _She is taking this extremely personal._ "I don't think it was like that My Lady, it was just that my siblings were born before my parents ascended the throne, and greater liberties were allowed then."

She shook her head angrily, and blew out a breath. "But they were your parents; surely they could have made an effort to ensure you didn't lack the attention your siblings received."

"Well….Jaehaerys was quite ill growing up," he said quietly, feeling guilty for talking about his brother's ailments when he knew that Jaehaerys would have hated It. "And Duncan was…well, he was Duncan. The two of them took up most of my parents' spare time."

"Didn't that bother you?"

Aemon trained his eyes on her, curious to see what she was getting at. "I suppose when I was little it annoyed me, but as I grew older I understood that they needed more attention than I did," he shrugged. "My childhood wasn't unhappy."

Her blue eyes drifted off, a deep pain filling them. "Being ignored can be hurtful." She whispered, hugging herself despite the warmth of the chambers. To Aemon she suddenly seemed much less ethereal, a divine being fallen to the mud of the world. "Growing up in a household of trueborn siblings taught me that."

"Trueborn?"

Her eyes had their sharpness again. "I am a bastard."

A silence fell upon the room then, and Aemon struggled to find the right response. While he had no real ill-will towards bastards, at least in comparison to others in his station, the surprise of it still struck him like a blow. He forced his idiotic thoughts away. _She is still a person, no different than she was yesterday._ He made himself speak. "I was under the impression that bastards were treated better in Dorne."

"They are," she said. "But that does not mean that trueborn children are not favoured over those of us born on the wrong side of the blanket."

Aemon stared at his feet, trying to gather his thoughts. It had been so long since he had had to provide support for anyone. _I can hardly support myself, how in the world can I make her feel better?_ He gave a tired sigh. "At the end of the day, it doesn't matter what your family believes, or what other people believe. The only thing that matters what _you_ believe." He tried a smile. "For what it's worth, I like you much better than your siblings."

"But you don't know them," she pointed out. "You don't even know _me_ all that well."

He shrugged artlessly. "True, but in the few sparse hours we've spent together I've already found you to be a better person than most of your fellow countrymen. If your family are foolish enough to overlook you then so be it, at least I know your worth."

Suddenly he felt her press against him, her mouth clasped over his own. She opened her lips, licked his teeth, and ran a finger under his chin. Her taste was delicious. She kissed him, or perhaps he kissed her, but it gave them both pleasing warmth and was not brief. He allowed himself to revel in it for a time before an image of Alerie came flooding back to him and he pulled away with a start.

He stared at her, trembling. "Forgive me, my lady. I cannot." And with that turned and left the room, and his heart, behind him.


	4. Rhaelle's Wisdom

In general, Aemon was forced to admit that he was a man who failed to live up to even the most minor of standards. He had tried a thousand different projects, ranging from being captain of the Gold cloaks, to trying to start up several charitable institutions like his mother was fond of. Due to a mixture of bad luck, impatience and a shiftless obsession with the next thing, he could hardly remember one that had not trailed off into disappointment, failure or outright disaster.

The tourney grounds, as it approached completion, was therefore a very pleasant surprise.

One of the guards turned out to be the son of a carpenter and had applied what he knew into helping create the seating. Maester Corlys took a rare moment from running the castle's ins and outs to give advice on the length of the jousting field. More recently the Dornishmen had shown up in full numbers to help saw and nail the planks and carry the timber, proving to be hard workers and more than capable.

Aemon took a step back across the fields, gazing at the nearly complete structure, and produced the broadest and most self-satisfied grin he had entertained in quite some time. Then he was nearly pitched on his face by a hearty thump on the shoulder.

He turned, fully expecting to be attacked by one of the bandits of the forest out for his head, and received a very great surprise.

"When my beautiful wife told me that there was going to be a tourney here, I must admit that I was worried for how well it would all look," Edric Baratheon's blue eyes were creased with cheer. "I have never been more wrong in all my life!"

Aemon blinked at his good-brother. "When did you get here?"

"Less than an hour ago," he boomed. "And when I and Rhaelle arrive here with our retinue, what did we find to greet us? Nothing! You were off admiring your handiwork!"

"Apologies, I just wanted to make sure everything was in order."

Edric waved the thought away. "Don't worry about it, but I would advise you to go back to the castle, Rhaelle wanted to speak with you urgently."

Rhaelle gazed across her desk in thoughtful silence for a very long time.

People with elevated opinions of themselves no doubt delighted in being looked upon in such a manner, mentally listing the many wonderful characteristics the onlooker must be in dumbstruck admiration for. For Aemon, in his current state, it was torture. Reflected in his sister's estimating gaze he saw all his own disappointment in himself, and wriggled in his chair wishing the ordeal would end.

"So what do you think of my predicament?" he ventured, able to bear it no longer. "Now that you know…"

Rhaelle ran a hand through her long silvery mane, pulling it back over her shoulder. "Brother," she began. "When did you become an idiot? I seem to have missed that dramatic moment in your life."

Aemon couldn't help but wince at her words. "I know I haven't handled things all that well, but-"

"-No," she cut in. "You haven't handled this _at all._ You have a beautiful woman in your home that you love spending time with, and who seems to genuinely have feelings for you. Someone who by your own word makes you feel alive again….and what do you do? You push her away!" For a moment he thought that his sister might breathe fire at him. "Aemon, you are without a doubt the most idiotic man I know."

"It hasn't been easy…."

Rhaelle's eyes narrowed. "Of course it hasn't been easy! You suffered a great loss! I know that-we all know that! But you keep pushing away all attempts at help, at every turn you refuse it despite how much we all offer." She blew out a breath. "And I can see that's not going to change either. That's how it's always been with you Aemon, and in the end that's the cause of all your sadness. You are your own worst enemy."

_She's not wrong_, he thought sadly as he hunched into his chair. He kept his eyes on his feet, unable to meet his sister's fiery glare. What stung most was that he agreed with every word she had spoken, and the idea that perhaps he simply did not have it in him to be happy. "I miss Alerie," he confessed quietly. "I miss hearing her laugh, I miss seeing her smile." He felt tears choking him. "I feel like I've been robbed of a life….we could have been happy together, with our child. But they're gone and I'm in this shell of a life, all because I couldn't protect them."

Rhaelle gave a tired sigh. "Aemon….you're not being fair on yourself. Alerie died because of the war; that had nothing to do with you."

"I was her husband. I wrapped her in my cloak… I was supposed to protect her, and our babe." He gave a shudder as he felt his body tremble. "Why do I deserve happiness Rhaelle? A man who can't protect his family is not worthy of anything…"

Suddenly he felt Rhaelle take his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. His sister's eyes where flames of purple. "Do you know what Mother said to me, in her last days? She didn't tell me try and reign in Duncan's confidence, or nurse Jaehaerys health, she told me to take care of _you._ I didn't even think twice about that Aemon, because you're my baby brother…" her bottom lip trembled slightly, her eyes became glassy. "I am always going to love you, no matter what. You are my brother and my blood. You are one of the best people in my life, and you have always been ready to give_ me_ help when I needed it, but you are never going to find happiness if you keep letting yourself suffer in silence. If you love this woman then you need be willing to do something about it."

"'Elle…what do I do?"

His sister drew back into her seat, and watched him carefully, trying to search his soul for something. Finally she allowed herself a smile. "Here's what we are going to do. You are going to hold a feast in the Great Hall and invite all your Dornishmen and Edric will bring his Stormlords. We will drink, we will dance and by all the Gods you are going to go and find this girl and have a good time. That is an order."

They were all in attendance, more or less. The whole of Summerhall gathered in one room, sharing meat and mead, laughing and backslapping while musicians played their fingers off. The room seemed to glow with life and energy.

Lord Fowler was complaining about the faithlessness of the Yronwoods who had been pressuring his lady wife into turning over a man at arms of whom they had accused of thievery. Myles Allyrion was nodding along and grumbling, 'Mmm,' at all the wrong moments. Steffon was trying to impress one of the Dornish maidens with tales of his tourney victories, boasting and exaggerating as boys were wont to do. Edric was swapping grunts with Jon Staedmon in one corner, tight as if they'd known each other since they were boys. Rhaelle was quietly murmuring with Maester Corlys, a sombre look on her face. Aemon gave a sigh and raised a silent toast to her.

"So that's your sister?"

He turned around and got quite the shock. The figure that had possessed his thoughts of late stood in a finely woven red dress that was so sheer that it seemed like her skin from the neck down was a crimson colour. Her dark hair was a woven into a dozen delicate curls, and hung about her shoulders. _She looks like a Rhoynish Princess,_ he thought absently.

Aemon found himself grinning like a fool at the sight of her, unable to do much more than look at the woman before him with appraisal. "I…yes, that's Rhaelle."

Her blue eyes drifted through the crowd and went straight to the Lady of Storm's End. There was a sense of approval on her face when she turned back to Aemon. "She looks lovely," her eyes flicked to his glass. "Oh you're not drinking that Arbor juice are you?" She picked up a different flagon from a nearby table and poured a couple of glasses.

"I shouldn't…"

"Too good to drink with me?"

"Not good enough. I can never stop halfway."

"Halfway to where?"

"Face down in the mud was my usual destination."

Her blue eyes shone in the candlelight. "You take a sip; I'll try and catch you if you fall, how about that?"

He hesitated for a moment, unsure before finally relenting. "I suppose I can agree with that." He took the glass, and a sip, and grimaced like someone had vomited into mouth. "Seven Hells! What is that made of?"

She broke out in an eruption of laughter. "I've decided it's one of those questions you'd be happier without an answer to."

"Well, since you've gone to all the trouble of pouring it for me then I might as well finish the glass." He took a moment to gather his strength and then downed the rest of his drink. It was bitter and made his eyes water, but he managed to keep it down without much effort. Somehow he even found the strength to grin.

"Soon enough we'll have you drinking like a Dornishman," she giggled lightly and watched him for a moment. "I must say, you really surprised me with all of this….after last time, well, I honestly thought you'd wriggle your way out of having to speak to anyone until it was safe for us to leave."

Aemon blew out a breath. "I guess I surprised us both then."

When he looked over, her eyes were locked on his own. "It was a pleasant surprise."

They stood there, in silence, backs to the wall, watching a room full of their friends' chatter. He glanced at her and she slowly looked sideways, like she was checking whether he was looking, and when she got there he pretended as if he was looking past her at Maester Corlys all along. There was a moment of silence, and then she picked up the flagon again and poured herself another drink, offering him one as well. "Are you trying to get me drunk, my lady?"

"I'm trying to help you loosen up," she said with a light laugh. "Besides, as far as drinking companions go, I could do a lot worse than a prince."

"Oh, I could drink Aegon the Unworthy under the table." He grinned sideways at her and she grinned back. Suddenly the distance didn't feel so great anymore.

"There you are!" It was Edric who suddenly loomed out of nowhere. "Come back up to the dais, your sister wants you raise a toast to the guests."

Aemon wanted to beg off for a moment, but for the life of him he was buzzing with laughter and mirth and decided to just go ahead with it. He raised his palms helplessly. "I cannot disobey the lady," and followed the big man up the dais and facing a sea of drunken faces.

"My father once told me you can know a man by the company he keeps!" Aemon called at the room with a smile. "Judging by this fine gathering, I can't be quite the wretch I thought I was!"

A few laughs and a general murmur of agreement, and some raised glasses. Somehow in the sea of cheering faces, through the cloud of wine fuelled haze, he could make out two blue eyes smiling at him.

"In a few days' time, we'll be host to many, many more guests for this little tourney of ours, but tonight it is just us and for that I say we should enjoy ourselves and thank the Seven for bringing us all together!"

The cheer that erupted seemed to shake the very foundations of Summerhall itself, and for once Aemon found that he was laughing easier, and that his smiles were becoming much less forced. _Maybe,_ he told himself. _Just this once, I can be happy…_


	5. Fun and Foreboding

**A/N: Thanks go to Ramses for the constant reviews, they mean a lot!**

**AEMON**

Aemon and wine might have their disagreements, but as it flowed freely into his cup he could hardly deny its many charms. _If wine is always willing to forgive, why shouldn't I? How drunk could one make me?_

Drunk enough for another, as it turned out.

"Good speech, lad, I always knew you had hidden talents," rambled Edric as he sloshed a third into Aemon's cup. "It's very well hidden, but what's the point of a hidden talent that's obvious?"

"What indeed?" agreed Aemon, swallowing a fourth. He could not have called it a pleasant taste now, but it was no longer like swallowing red-hot coals. _How drunk can four get me anyway?_

Fiddlers went to work on hacking out a tune in the background and with the music came dancing from the drunk Dornishmen, or at least well-meaning clomping in the presence of music if not directly related to it. A kind judge would have called it dancing and Aemon was like a kind judge then, and with each drink, he'd lost track of the exact number, he got more kind and less judging.

The room grew hotter and louder and dimmer, sweat-shining faces swimming at him full of laughter and damn it he was enjoying himself like he couldn't remember when. Day after he returned from war maybe, when it seemed like they had just conquered some great force of evil and hadn't slaughtered thousands of human beings whilst burying their own. One of the Edric's bannermen produced a pipe from somewhere and tried to add to the music in a drunken way, but failed in a coughing fit and had to be escorted outside for air. Aemon thought he saw Rhaelle, talking softly to Lord Allyrion under the watchful eyes of a few of her husband's knights.

He was dancing with one of his sister's friends and complimenting her on her clothes, which were oddly garish, and she couldn't hear him anyway and kept shouting, "Pardon?" Then he was dancing with one of the Fowler girls, and complimenting her on her clothes as well, which were stained with wine and smelled like cloves, but the woman still beamed at the compliment. Then suddenly he found himself face to face with blue eyes and to his mind they were making a pretty good effort of it, which was quite an achievement since he still had a half-full cup in one hand and she had a full one.

"Never thought you would be a dancer," he shouted in her ear. "Too practical."

"Never thought you would be one either," her breath hot against his cheek. "Too moody."

"No doubt you're right. My wife taught me to enjoy it."

She stiffened then, for a moment. "What was she like?"

"One of the gentlest people I've ever known. She's been gone for a long time now, though sometimes it doesn't feel so long."

She took a drink, looking at him sideways over the rim of her cup, and there was something to that glance that gave him a breathless tingle. He leaned to speak to her and she caught him around the head and kissed him quite fiercely. If he'd had time he would've thought of any number of trivial reasons to stop but he didn't get time to think, or kiss back, or push her off, or even work out which would be his preference before she twisted his head away and was dancing with Lord Fowler, leaving him to be manhandled about the floor by half a dozen different guests.

He leaned against the wall, head spinning, face sweating, heart pounding as if he had a dose of the fever. _Strange what sharing a little spit can do,_ he pondered. _Well, that and enough measures of wine to put down an aurochs. _He looked at his glass, thought he had best off throwing the contents down the wall, then decided he put more value on the wall than himself and drank the rest instead.

"Are you alright?"

"She kissed me," he muttered.

"The girl?"

Aemon nodded, then realised that it was Rhaelle he had said it to and silently cursed himself for speaking so openly. But his sister only grinned. "Well, that's a pleasant surprise. Care to point her out for me?"

He gave a dull sigh and with blurred vision and a shaky hand pointed over to her dancing form amongst the Dornishmen. "There."

_"Her?_"Rhaelle's eyes widened in shock, and then after a moment her stunned expression twisted into a drunken grin. Suddenly she threw back her head and howled with laughter, her whole body shaking with the effort. "Of all the girls in the realm," she began, trying in vain to stop herself from choking on laughter. "My little brother went and fell for Myriah Sand!"

His sister's laughs were so loud that they nearly went over the music, and more than a few guests looked their way. Aemon, drunk as he was, grew angry. "What are you laughing at?" he snapped. "What's so damned funny?"

Rhaelle's violet eyes were creased with pleasure as she looked at him. "Don't worry you'll catch onto it soon enough, I don't want to spoil the surprise."

He was about to ask her what she meant, but by the time he had worked up the energy to make the words Rhaelle was gone off to scold Steffon for drinking too much.

"I thought we were dancing?"

Her cheek had colour in it and her eyes were shining deep and dark and for reasons he couldn't quite rationalise to himself she looked dangerously fine to him right then. _Myriah,_ he said the name in his head for a bit. _That's a lovely name._ He tossed down his drink with a manly flick of the wrist then realised that the cup was empty, threw it away, snatched hers while she grabbed his other hand and they dragged each other in amongst the lumbering bodies.

**JAEHAERYS**

When Jaehaerys entered his father's solar so late in the evening he was unsure what to expect, but it certainly wasn't the king laughing and drinking wine with Jenny of Oldstones. In fact he wasn't sure when he had last seen his father so jovial and upbeat. He was still smiling when he saw Jaehaerys enter.

"Ah, Jaehaerys take a seat" he said happily, pouring another glass of wine and handing it to his bewildered son. He sat back in his seat, a pleased look on his aged features. "Jenny's just been telling me of her and Duncan's trip to the Crag."

Jenny beamed at Jaehaerys. There was something about the woman, a beauty to her that wasn't easily labelled. On a surface level she was attractive in modest sense, different from the sensual ladies of Dorne or the fierce she-wolves of the north, but beautiful none the less. Yet if Jaehaerys was honest with himself it wasn't just Jenny's outward features that made her so captivating, it was her nature. Jenny looked at the world as it was all a scene from a children's story come to life, eyes wide with wonder and innocence. When she looked at someone it was like she was looking directly into their heart, and more often than not saw their worth.

"We saw quite a bit," she confessed. "And every night we laid under the stars and watched dark become light."

"It's very beautiful in the Westerlands." He agreed.

Jenny hummed her agreement and took a sip of wine, holding the cup with both hands. Even after years of living with the royal family and being hosted in all manner of wealthy lodgings she still seemed slightly unaccustomed with such finery. She finished off her wine and rose from her chair. "I had best be getting to bed, thank you for the wine Your Grace."

King Aegon waved the thought away and kissed his good-daughter's hand. "I'll see you in the morning my dear."

She gave a clumsily attempt at a courtesy and made to leave before pausing by Jaehaerys chair. "Oh, Duncan wanted me to tell you that he's been having dreams. He said you'd understand." And without another word she left the crown prince alone with his father.

Jaehaerys remembered what his brother had told him of his other dreams, the last time he was in the capitol and they both had a quiet moment together. _I suppose if he's been having morefrequent dreams then it isn't a passing thing._ He'd read enough about those kind of dreams to know what they signalled.

Aegon drummed his fingers against his oaken desk for a moment before pushing out a sigh. "Like Aemon, I assume?"

"No," he said softly, sipping his own glass of wine. "Aemon, for how much we love him, leans on one side of the coin rather than the other. From what Duncan has told me, his own dreams are grander and less haunting; he talks of dragons being hatched from stone and Targaryen banners being paraded through the kingdoms."

The king was silent for a long time, chin rest on his hands. What was going on inside his head, Jaehaerys could not say, but he knew that his father was considering every single option available to him. "Aemon was ill, still might be ill for how little I've seen of him," his regal mouth turned down into an open frown. "And yet you're certain that Duncan is not going down that path? I need not tell you about my brother Daeron."

"Duncan is not Daeron," he replied calmly. _It's Aemon who suffers from that,_ he almost added before thinking better of it. "His dreams, Jenny's woods witch, the prophecy….it all points to something greater."

"Summerhall," Aegon cast a glance outside his window into the night sky, as if he could see the castle from where he was sitting. There was wisdom in his aged voice, but also a steely strength too. It was one that could command armies. "Our destiny lies at Summerhall, I can feel it."

"The eggs are still here Father," he reminded. "And the Maesters say that spring shall be upon us soon."

The king sat in silence for a long time, staring down at his hands. He gave a sudden intake of breath and shook his head in dismissal. "Time enough for all that later, the reason why I asked you here…" he began rummaging through his desk before suddenly pulling out an envelope with a broken seal and handing over to Jaehaerys. "Your Aunt Daella writes. She sends her love."

Jaehaerys opened the letter and scanned the contents. "That's not all she sends…"

"Indeed. It seems that Aemon has taken it upon himself to throw a tourney at Summerhall," he smiled kindly at the thought. "I didn't think he had any initiative for that sort of thing."

"He has talent," replied Jaehaerys, looking up from his letter. "He just lacks the will to utilize it. This is odd."

Aegon nodded. "Aye, but for whatever reason, he has thrown this tourney and invited half a dozen lords and ladies."

"And Daella plans on going?" Jaehaerys could not remember the last time his aunt had left Dorne for any reason other than the direst of matters. His mother's funeral was the last time she had stepped foot in King's Landing at least. _Though that hasn't stopped her letters from coming in almost weekly…_

The king took a final swig of his wine before setting the glass down. "I believe it has to do with the party of Dornishmen staying with Aemon, one woman in particular."


	6. Fire and Wine

**A/N: As always, many thanks go to Ramzes for the constant support.**

**AEMON**

It was a long time since Aemon had gotten himself properly drunk but he found the skill came back quick enough. Putting one foot in front of the other had become a bit of a challenge but if he kept his eyes wide open on the ground and really thought about it he didn't fall over too much. The candles were too bright and Maester Corlys said something about upholding the Targaryen name and Aemon laughed in his face and told him that there were more disgraces in the Targaryen family than in all of the Seven Kingdoms combined and Myriah laughed as well and spilled wine all down her dress. Then he chased her up a stairwell with his hands all over her. She may have found it pleasant at first but evidently found it annoying after a while and slapped him, the shock of it nearly knocked him down the steps, but she caught him by the tunic and dragged him after her.

"Sorry for the slap," she said, breathing heavy.

"What slap?" He leaned forward and started kissing her as they reached the top, her mouth tasting like wine.

"Isn't your sister around here?"

"They'll be at the feast still."

_Seven Hells. _Things were spinning by then. He was fumbling around with the door, laughing, and then suddenly Myriah was fumbling around in his breeches and they were up against the wall and kissing again. His mouth was full of her breath and her tongue whilst the door banged open behind them and they somehow tumbled their way inside.

The room was reeling and he was desperately struggling to make work of Myriah's dress. Somewhere along the line he realized that the door was still open and kicked out at it, but judged the distance wrong and kicked at the stone wall instead and gave a howl of pain whilst Myriah laughed herself silly. He got the door shuddering shut with the next kick and had her dress pulled down and started kissing at her chest. Then he stopped and stared down in the darkness.

"Are we doing the right thing?" he asked, with a sudden moment of doubt.

Myriah frowned. "How should I know? Get your breeches off."

It was a battle in and off itself trying to get his finery off, and he was certain that he had torn several expensive pieces in his haste.

They'd made it onto the bed somehow and were tangled up with each other more naked than not, warm and pleasantly wriggling, his hand between her legs and her shoving her hips against it, both laughing less and moaning more, slow and throaty. There were bright dots fizzing on the inside of his closed lids so he had to open his eyes so he didn't feel like he'd fall right off the bed and out the window. Having his eyes open was a worse option, the room turning around. Soon all that was left was Myriah's sharp breathing, his thudding heartbeats and the warm rubbing of skin on skin.

Something about Alerie niggled at him, and pirates and disappointed fathers, but he let it all drift past like smoke and spin away with the rest of the spinning room. _How long has it been since I've had some fun, after all?_

"Oh," groaned Aemon. "Oh no."

He moaned a piteous moan as any of the cursed dead in the seven hells, facing an eternity of suffering and regretting most bitterly their lives wasted on sin. "By all the Gods of Westeros." _But the Gods have decent people to assist and couldn't spare the time for me. Not after last night's fun_.

Everything hurt him. The blanket across his bare legs, a fly buzzing faintly up near the ceiling, the sun sneaking around the edges of the curtains, the sounds of Summerhall coming to life. He remembered now why he had stopped drinking so much. _Why did it feel like such a great idea to start again?_

He winced at the hacking, gurgling noise that had woken him, managed to lift his head a few degrees and saw Myriah kneeling over the privy. She was naked as her name day, ribs standing out as she retched. A strip of light from the window found a big scar, a curving trail underneath her left shoulder blade.

She rocked back, turned eyes sunken in dark rings on him and wiped a string of spit from the corner of her mouth. "Another kiss?"

The sound he made was indescribable. Part laugh, part belch, part groan. He could not make it again in a year of trying. _But why on earth would I want to?_

"I have to get some air." Myriah picked up her dress from the ground and with shaky hands managed to pull it partially over herself and limped over towards the window.

"Don't do it," moaned Aemon, but there was no stopping her. Not without moving, and that was inconceivable. She hauled the curtains away and pushed the window wide, while he struggled feebly to shield his eyes from the merciless light.

Myriah was cursing as she fished under the bed. He could barely believe it when she came up with her discarded flagon of wine, still a quarter-full. She sat there gathering her courage, like someone about to jump into an icy lake.

"You're not going to-"

She tipped the bottle up and swallowed, clapped the back of her hand to her mouth, stomach muscles fluttering, and then burped, and grimaced, and shivered, and offered it to him. "You?" she asked, voice wet with rush back.

He wanted to be sick just looking at it. "By every God of Westeros, Essos, and Old Valyria, no."

"It's the only thing that will help." She insisted.

Aemon gave an uneasy laugh. "Is the cure for burning really another burn?"

"Once you get burnt you can't feel anything again."

She slowly did up her dress as best she could without any maids to assist, only to find that she had torn a rather large hole near the shoulder. She scowled at the damage, gave up and slumped down on the bed beside him. Aemon wasn't sure he had ever seen someone look so worn out and defeated, not even in the mirror.

He wondered whether he should put his clothes on. Some of the dirty rags scattered about the room bore resemblance to part of his doublet, but he could not be sure. _I can't be sure of anything._ He forced himself to sit, dragging his legs off the bed as if they were made of stone. When he was sure his stomach would not immediately rebel, he looked at Myriah and said, "Your name is Myriah Sand."

A single dark brow rose. "How'd you figure that out?"

"My sister told me….do you know her?"

Myriah gave an artless shrug. "Maybe she met me once, I really can't recall though. I've had a long life of bad luck and trouble back home."

Aemon scratched at his stubble, it felt like a thousand tiny daggers against his hand. "Tell me, I could help. No one deserves some help more than you."

"You don't know what I deserve." She slumped back on her elbows, head sinking into her olive shoulders. "You don't know what I've done."

"It cannot be worse than what you put me through last night."

She didn't laugh. She was looking past him, eyes focused far away. "When I was five and ten I killed a man."

Aemon swallowed. "Well, yes…that is worse."

"I got into a fight with my family. I hated it there. Hated my distant mother, hated her husband and his coldness. I lashed out."

"What happened?"

"He was just some stupid squire, only a bastard of some minor lord. He thought that since I was naught but a bastard myself that he could have his way with me." A flush of shame came over cheeks then. "I was angry at my mother, and I couldn't think straight…then he grabbed at me. I didn't mean to kill him but I got scared and cut him." she rubbed absently under her jaw with a fingertip. "He wouldn't stop bleeding."

"Did he deserve it?"

"He was just a fool, a drunken fool….but a fool nonetheless. But I was scared; I knew what happens to murderers, so I ran. For nearly four years I lived with the Orphans of Greenblood, living on the river, fishing, picking fruit, doing any small work I could to get enough coin to feed myself and keep clothes on my back." She droned it all out in a dead monotone. "After a while I got to thinking that I could just live and die on that river. Mayhaps I should have."

Aemon thought of all the times he wished he had died on the Stepstones. "What changed?"

"I woke up one day and I realized that I missed my mother, my brothers and my sisters. I even missed my mother's husband." Her blue eyes looked beyond the point of exhaustion. "Sometimes trying to run away, trying to hide from life…..it only makes things worse."

There was a heavy silence, then. She raised the flagon and took a couple of good, long swallows, neck working with the effort, and she came up gasping for air with eyes watering hard. That was an excellent moment for Aemon to mumble his excuses and leave. A few weeks ago, the door would have been swinging already. But he found that this time he did not want to leave.

"If you want me to share your low opinion of yourself," he said. "I'm afraid that I'll have to disappoint you. It sounds to me like you have made some mistakes."

Myriah snorted. "You call them mistakes?"

"They were pretty stupid ones, but yes. You came back home."

"Who would reject home?"

"I did, now give me a drink."

Unsurely she handed him the flagon. "What do you mean?"

He closed his eyes and forced down a swallow, burning and choking all the way. "When the war broke out, I was a jabbering mess; an utter weakling."

"I've seen some weak people before…"

"Then picture worse. Picture Rhaegel the Meek, Baelor the Befuddled and Daeron the Drunken all at once. I was at the lowest point someone of my blood can fall, my sanity wasn't questioned so much as it was outright denied." He raised the flagon in salute. "Bad dreams that I thought were real and the tendency to burn random things. Aemon Targaryen descendent of Aegon the Conqueror himself! Oh, noble bloodline!" he drank again. It felt good in a hideous way, like picking a scab.

Myriah frowned at him. "You don't seem mad, and I've seen madmen."

"In my….delusion, I left King's Landing and got myself hurt by some Blackfyre loyalists." He cringed, a slight scar still at the corner of his eye. "My wife…she….her brother had died. One of them anyway, the other one was with me, keeping _me_ alive when he should have been back home, helping his sister. She had no one so she went to grieve with her family, what few of them were left." He took a long, deep pull of wine, breathing hard. "She was captured by Blackfyre men. They didn't know who she was, and they killed her, our unborn child too. I went with the army, I fought in the war and then afterwards I squirmed away from my family when they offered help, as always, and I hid here at Summerhall like the coward I am. Away from everyone and everything that could remotely be considered a life. Until, for some reason, fate sent you to shake my sorry self out of it."

"Fate sent a murderess bastard from Dorne."

"Well….I am no septon, but I think fate sent exactly what I needed." Aemon stood. It wasn't easy, but he managed it. "I feel like all my life I've been avoiding the big things, hiding away. Maybe it's time I started running towards life instead of away from It." he sank down beside her. "I don't care what you've done or what your birth is. I owe you a lot, now let's _both_ enjoy life." He tossed the empty flagon aside, took a deep breath. "Mother have mercy, but I'll take that kiss now."

She squinted at him, her face flushed with wine and sickness, eyes a little pink, a little blue. "You're serious?"

"I may be a fool, but I'm not letting a woman who can out-drink a Baratheon pass me by. Wipe your mouth and come here."

He shifted towards her, someone clattering outside, and her mouth twitched up in a smile. She leaned towards him, hair tickling under his shoulder, and her breath smelled foul but he did not care. The chamber door creaked open and Myriah bellowed at the door, loudly and desperately in a broken voice.

Despite the Dornishwoman's warnings, the door lurched open anyway and a woman stepped into the room. She was not tall but not exactly short either. Her dark hair was lined with grey and her face carried wrinkles, but the woman stood with a proud and regal bearing.

Myriah shrieked in anger. "Gods mother! What are you doing here?"

Aemon's vision was blurring and his head a thumbing war drum, but after a moment he soundly realised the elder woman. "Aunt Daella?"


End file.
